In the last five days my unit has seen four soldiers killed in action. Tomorrow morning we will have our third Ramp Ceremony for the week. The Ramp Ceremony, by design, is performed to show the highest level of respect for those who have died in battle as their bodies are loaded on the plane that will fly them home. There is an intensive effort here to bring honor to these men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country. While the ceremony is designed as a tribute to the fallen soldier, deep down I know that it is actually for me. With each ceremony, I have realized that its personal impact on me is cumulative. Each event brings a point of closure, but at the same time, an intensifying reality check on how fragile life actually is. I am surrounded by a constant reminder that we have no promise of tomorrow, much less next week or next year.
On a normal day I sit at my desk and listen to people complain; I have to walk too far to use the latrine, there aren’t any paper towels, the a/c is not cool enough, or someone tracked dirt in my office. All of this absurd whining takes place in the safety and the security of our office building. Meanwhile, our soldiers are putting on their gear and fearlessly driving into the local towns and villages to face a hidden enemy. Their only goal is to do the right thing. Every day they go out. Sometimes, they come back.
Today another American soldier was lost. I wonder if his baby daughter will ever understand why her daddy died in Afghanistan. Will she ever be able to grasp the complexity of war? Can she tell the difference between an insurgent and one who fights for freedom? Will that little girl care about the politics or will she just cry when her daddy doesn’t come home for Christmas? What peace will that beautifully wrapped Christmas present bring her, when she holds it instead of holding her daddy? But, in the end, her daddy is gone and he won’t be home for Christmas.
The Ramp Ceremony brings a momentary lull to an airfield that operates at full capacity 24 hours a day, seven days a week. There is a sense that time stands still as the massive C-17 Cargo plane pulls into place. The plane sits on the tarmac in an eerie silence as the rear aft door slowly drops. In the distance you can hear the vocal commands of the honor guard and you can almost feel each step as 30 soldiers march their way toward the rear of the plane. They methodically separate into two columns and cordon a path of honor for their fallen comrade.
The order is given to “Present Arms” as a vehicle slowly pulls forward with one more American hero. Arms are raised in salute as eight fellow soldiers, in drilled precision, move forward and take charge of the casket. As the flag draped casket is slowly marched toward the plane, the drum like sounds of boots echo across the airfield. You hear the voice of the detachment commander, “left, left, left…” as he leads the procession toward the rear of the plane that will take this soldier home for the last time.
As these days have passed, I find myself almost feeling guilty if I laugh or smile. Yet, I remember the words of John 10:10 when Jesus said, “I came that you might have life and have it abundantly.” I often ask myself where the realities of war and the call for abundant life come together. I pray that someday, I will find that answer.
Tonight I will pray for a mother that I do not know. Tonight I will cry for a child that I have never seen. Tonight my heart will break for a world that does not realize the magnitude of what they just lost.
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